


to start getting close to you

by gauras



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Feelings Realization, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 01, martin is bratty yet also fond. that's really all there is to this, takes place shortly after MAG 26
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22976725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauras/pseuds/gauras
Summary: The patrol yielded, as usual, nothing. Now, Martin has fixed himself the first of the day’s many, many cups of tea and curled up at his desk with the camp bed’s static-tinged blanket draped around his shoulders. He’s nursing a headache and toying with the idea of requisitioning a recorder to read some bits of poetry into—something he’s wanted to try for a while now—when Jon stumbles his way into the Archives.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 60
Kudos: 382





	to start getting close to you

**Author's Note:**

> don't know what this is, tbh
> 
> i'm partial to the interpretation that early s1 martin disliked jon just as much as jon disliked him, he was just much more reasonable abt it. but after jon let him stay in the archives, martin began to see a different, softer side of him and was like "is anyone going to fall in love w that?" and didn't wait for an answer
> 
> title from ethan gruska's [reoccurring dream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsCs6J3fFuM)

The Institute at night is… spooky. Jon would hate it, if he knew Martin thought of their workplace in such _juvenile_ terms, but it’s not like he can read minds, so Martin will think whatever he likes in the privacy of his own brain, thanks very much.

So, right. Spooky. At night, the vaguely oppressive feeling of a wide-eyed something looming over you abates, oddly enough. Yet without that feeling, Martin is struck by how quiet the Institute is when empty, especially down in document storage, off-putting in its own way and barely a step up from the Archives proper. He's yet to see anyone from the cleaning crew during those long, lonely hours, but he can't say he blames them for steering clear of the Archives, creepy and dusty as they are. 

Martin keeps to his designated corner, for the most part. When walking the route from the breakroom to his new bed, it's too easy for the echoing sound of his footsteps to reverberate through the corridor and overlap, making it sound as though there's multiple someones half a step behind him. The halls are long and dark, and the torch on Martin's phone always seems so weak against an entire building's worth of shadow.

Plus, Jon had sat him down and gone over the security measures installed in document storage, and Martin is not above admitting that he feels _mostly_ safe behind a thick, hefty door in a humidity controlled room. No worms getting in there. Hopefully.

But, while the Institute at night is a hollow, ominous thing, plagued by apparitions of worms and shadows that seem to detach from darkened corners and follow, something about it in the small hours before sunrise _shifts._

Martin has always been a morning person. There’s something nice about it—being up before all the rest of the world, like your cares and worries sleep with the bulk of humanity. It’s quiet, but not in that lonely way late nights are. Those hours are his, and his alone, because he _chose_ to be awake for them.

So, when Martin wakes up at his usual 5:45 and goes to peruse the fridge in the breakroom, the Institute doesn’t seem so dark and the footsteps that trail behind him don’t seem so numerous.

It also helps that Jon has taken to coming in just shy of half-six; his quiet presence seems to breathe some life back into the Archives, easing the bleak stillness.

Today, however, is an _early_ day. The feeling of phantom worms and the itch of idleness hadn’t mixed well with the cheap, scratchy blanket the camp bed affords, and Martin had dragged himself out of bed a few minutes short of five to make the first of his worm patrols around the Archives.

The patrol yielded, as usual, nothing. Now, Martin has fixed himself the first of the day’s many, many cups of tea and curled up at his desk with the camp bed’s static-tinged blanket draped around his shoulders. He’s nursing a headache and toying with the idea of requisitioning a recorder to read some bits of poetry into—something he’s wanted to try for a while now—when Jon stumbles his way into the Archives.

His short hair is starting to get a little shaggy, and there’s a spot in the back that sticks up in a stubborn cowlick that Martin isn’t sure he knows about. He’s in the middle of yawning as he opens the door, eyes scrunched tight behind his glasses, their antiquated chain winking in the dim light from Martin’s desk lamp. One hand covers his mouth (which is silly, because it’s not like there’s anyone there to be offended at the brief appearance of teeth or a double chin) while the other is white-knuckled on the strap of his satchel. His heavy coat swallows him whole, a bit overkill for the mid-April drudgery, and Martin wonders, briefly and with a small amount of worry, if he’s eating enough, then scolds himself. He can’t be fretting over his prick of a boss, even if he _had_ (grudgingly) believed Martin about Jane Prentiss.

The door swings open and Jon stumbles in and Martin thinks his thoughts even as he jumps. The shifting of his weight causes his chair to give a pitiful squeak, piercing the quiet. Jon’s eyes snap open and fix on Martin, wide like a deer in the… lamplight?

“Oh. Martin. Good morning.” Jon yawns again, his tense posture relaxing as he steps fully into the room, letting the heavy door fall shut behind him. “You’re up early.”

Martin blinks, because—is this _small talk?_ From _Jonathan Sims?_ He must be dreaming. Or would this scenario fall in the realm of nightmares?

Well, there's none of the knocking or peaches or writhing worms that have haunted his sleep as of late, so it can't be a nightmare. No, instead he’s just stuck, _alone,_ without a buffer between him and his rude boss who looks distressingly soft and care-worn in the liquid-gold lamplight.

“Y-yeah. Bit of a morning person, you know?” Jon hums, in a way that sounds vaguely disgusted. Typical response, that. “What about you? It’s not even six, yet.”

Jon makes his way over to his office door, dropping his satchel on the floor to pat down his pockets for his keys. His employee badge is clipped, haphazard, to the breast pocket of his light blue button down, swinging a slow, metronomic swing as he passes. “Yes, well. I found myself awake and thought I may as well do something useful with my time.”

Right, because _that’s_ believable. Martin can see the way exhaustion drags at Jon’s movements, how his shoulders slump, like squaring them would take more energy than he can afford such trivialities at the moment. Still, if Jon wants to come in when it’s clear he hasn’t slept the night before, that’s his prerogative. He’s a grown man.

A sigh, long and low, comes from Jon, and Martin thinks he maybe hears the _thunk_ of a forehead hitting old oak. He _definitely_ hears the muttered, “Christ’s sake, Jonathan.”

That doesn’t bode well. There’s simmering irritation below the slight blur of fatigue, and it’s never a good idea to be in the vicinity when that boils over. Martin considers making his excuses—get out of the metaphorical kitchen before he gets burned—but Jon is obviously leaning his head against the door in clear defeat, and the part of Martin that can’t resist trying to make things better goes all buttery at the sight.

So Martin sighs his own (quieter) sigh of dismay, and says, disregarding his better judgement and past experience, “Something the matter?”

Jon startles, like he’d forgot he has an audience, and turns slowly so his back presses to his still-locked office door. He looks very, _very_ tired. Martin can sympathize.

“I, ah,” his voice is raspy and he clears his throat, “left my keys. At home.” Oh, ouch. And then, surprising Martin, he tacks on, “I’d rather not brave the Tube twice in one morning.”

Ever the helper, Martin offers before he can truly think it through, “I think Rosie gets in around half-eight? She might be able to track down a master.”

“Eight-thirty…” Jon muses. He casts his eyes to the ceiling in thought, head tipped back, and Martin can clearly see the way his throat works as he swallows, which—is bad. He shouldn’t notice such things about Jon, not when he’s startlingly unguarded, like the lack of sleep has taken sandpaper to his edges and rounded him out: too tired to remember he despises Martin. “It’d be faster to just go back to mine.”

Right, yeah, nearly three hours is kind of a long time to sit around, especially if you’re an impatient soul. Martin hunches his shoulders slightly, fiddles with the handle of his mug, and braces for the inevitable scolding for being unable to provide a more timely solution.

Jon sighs again, stoops to pick up his bag, then pulls out the chair to Sasha’s desk, folding himself down into its creaky depths. Martin can only watch, dumbfounded, as Jon withdraws his laptop and a series of thick files from his bag to dump on the desktop. The laptop remains largely ignored; Jon flips open one of the files and from Martin’s vantage point in his own chair, he thinks he can see the cover page of a statement and some notes written in Jon’s tight scrawl. Martin frowns. He’s _pretty_ sure that they aren’t allowed to remove statements from the Archives, much less take them home.

As if he just _knows_ Martin is judging him from across the room, Jon asks, without looking up, “Problem, Martin?” It’s terribly dry and increasingly annoyed, indicative of the transition from sleepy-and-rumpled-off-hours-Jon to tired-and-cranky-work-Jon. It’d probably be wise to retreat and let him settle into his irritability without someone to take it out on.

“No, no!” Martin says, fishing about for an excuse to leave and cursing himself for noticing how Jon flicks a quick glance at him over the rim of his glasses, eyes dark-dark-dark. “I was just—gonna go make some tea?” His still-full mug sits at his elbow; he hopes Jon doesn’t notice. And then, because it’s force of habit, “Would you like some?”

At best, Martin doesn’t expect a response. At worst, Jon will make some cutting little remark about Martin’s work ethic, despite it still being, technically, off-hours.

Jon is drumming his fingers atop Sasha’s desk while he frowns down at his notes. It’s a spasmodic thing, an irregular tempo. Martin might describe it as anxious, until he remembers that Jonathan Sims never gets nervous. He gets sharp.

“Alright,” Jon says, and his fingers abruptly fall still. As does the rest of him. As does Martin.

Neither of them move. Martin now doubts his earlier assessment of the situation vis-a-vis _nightmare._ He rubs the corner of the terrible, hell-on-the-senses blanket between his fingers.

“O-okay,” Martin says, when at last the power of speech returns to him, and it’s like the still, heavy curse upon them has broken. Jon’s fingers resume their odd tapping, nearly frantic. “I’ll just—go.”

Martin flees the room, a light sigh from Jon snapping at his heels.

In the breakroom, Martin watches the electric kettle hiss and bubble, two mugs arranged carefully on the counter (the double-walled one with a cat’s tail for a handle is Jon’s, the one dotted with minimalistic, abstract sheep Martin’s). He has no clue what to make for Jon. The cat tail handle curls into a mocking question mark and Martin briefly wonders if Jon’ll snap at him if he brings something herbal and light, meant to soothe frazzled nerves. Maybe if he makes them both the same thing, he won’t notice?

Who’s he kidding, of course Jon won’t notice. The number of times Martin has watched a carefully prepared mug of tea go cold and gross upon Jon’s desk is disheartening, to say the least. But Martin is nothing if not stubborn and a people pleaser; he’s determined to make the perfect cup of tea for Jon, if only because it’s a point of pride that he knows how both Tim and Sasha take their tea. It’s infuriating not to know Jon’s preference: one cup short of a matching set.

Martin thumbs through the tin of assorted teas, a myriad of brands and flavors that have been consolidated into one location to save space. Hm. Chamomile or peppermint?

The lights in the breakroom flicker and whine, the sound reminiscent of rising static. They reflect off the dull metal of the kettle and the smooth porcelain bottoms of the mugs, hotly burning mini suns trapped in ceramic. Martin’s eyes hurt after having been in here for a few short minutes, and already he misses the dreary dimness of the Archives.

Jon likes to keep the lights in his office low, often forgoing the fluorescent overheads in favor of the warm glow of his bankers lamp. Martin thinks he might suffer from chronic migraines, too, and knows from experience that lack of sleep only compounds the matter. Peppermint it is, then, for both their sakes.

He drops a sachet into each mug, fetches milk and honey, and pours the water when the kettle clicks off. Martin doesn’t like much of anything in his peppermint tea, but he doesn’t know what to do for Jon’s. The closest to a positive reaction he’s ever got was when he dumped an unpalatable amount of sugar into a cup of Earl Grey and Jon hadn’t frowned at it too hard. He’d drank nearly half of it before it went cold.

Before he can think too long and lose himself to the spiral of self-doubt, Martin stirs in a spoonful and a half of honey and adds a splash of milk. Hopefully it’s… half decent.

As Martin walks, slow and careful, back to the Archives, sachets bumping up against the walls of their mugs, he laughs at the irony of fixing a soothing cup of tea for Jon, only to make him grimace at it in unconcealed contempt. He laughs, otherwise he might turn around and dump both mugs out and go hide on the camp bed.

Jon probably wouldn’t care, if he even noticed.

The Archives are warm and dark, which makes Martin’s tired eyes and achy head very happy. Jon is still sat at Sasha’s desk, but his glasses dangle from their chain round his neck and his face is mashed into his open palm. His eyes open at the _click_ of the Archives door and he squints at Martin in bleary bewilderment. Christ, he looks a mess.

“Um, here you are,” Martin says, pointlessly, as he sets Jon’s mug down on the desk, giving it a neat little quarter turn so the handle’s more easily accessible. “Peppermint.”

“I don’t care for herbal teas,” Jon says as Martin curls back up in his own chair, spreading the blanket that would better serve as a rug across his legs. Martin rolls his eyes. Of course he doesn’t.

Regardless, Jon reaches for the mug, folding his long fingers around it and tucking it close to his chest, like the freezing trying to line their ribcages with smoldering coals. After a few moments of cradling it, nails pressed red and white against the mug’s smoothly sloping body, Jon takes a sip. Unabashed, Martin watches his reaction, feeling ridiculously like a scientist scrutinizing the behavior of a flighty, fluttery bird. If only he had a clipboard to note observations.

He is prepared for a wrinkled nose, a curled lip, even nothing more than the tea being coldly relegated to a distant corner of the desk. As such, it is a surprise when Jon’s shoulders slump as he gives a quiet, considering, _pleased_ hum. It is thanks only to the silence that hangs in the air that Martin catches it, the sound so tiny that it immediately gets swallowed up by the papers that clutter every vaguely level surface.

 _Mmh._ Involuntary, like a sigh when taking off your trousers after a long day at work. _Mmh._ Content, like wedging your toes under a rice bag fresh from the microwave. _Mmh._ Like an exhalation, like the settling of an old house, like a single pebble dropped into the mirror-smooth surface of a lake: a slow ripple, then stillness.

Jon looks up, quirks an eyebrow at where Martin sits, gaping. In a sudden rush of awkward desperation, Martin takes a gulp of his own tea, scalding his tongue in the process. Somehow, he manages to choke out, “Okay?” and nod to the mug still held tenderly between Jon’s cupped palms, all while his eyes blur with tears of pain.

Jon shrugs, and carefully sets his tea down. Close by. Within easy grabbing distance. The sort of place you might set your tea if you intend to finish the whole thing, _before_ it gets cold. “It’s serviceable.”

_Prick._

It’s thought with far more fondness than Jon deserves, which.

Oh, no.

Not _Jon._

“Oh,” Martin squeaks. It sounds transparently pleased. He can feel himself blushing, a glowing beacon in the room that’s more shadow than light, and hastily turns away. Not that Jon pays him any mind.

Okay, okay, this is… fine, everything’s fine. This was bound to happen sooner or later, right? If not Jon, then Tim, or, or… _someone._ Someone loads nicer, or someone that’s not laughably out of his league.

Except that Jon ticks basically all of Martin’s boxes; or he _would,_ if he weren’t so damn prickly all the time. Except Martin’s starting to catch glimpses of something gooey beneath all those spines. Except he’s letting Martin stay in the Archives. Except he’s harsh and difficult to get along with and Martin has a, a _thing_ for getting people to like him. Except that Jon doesn’t like anyone, except maybe Sasha (and sometimes he tolerates Tim), except that Jon is drawing an absent finger around the rim of his cup of tea that _Martin_ made him. Except, except, except.

This little revelation throws so much of the past few weeks into knife-sharp clarity. Martin’s always been a morning person, sure, but it’s one thing to spend his mornings in the comfort of home picking away at a half-formed poem and another one entirely to look forward to spending a couple hours, uninterrupted, with the man that hates him, even as he gets twitchy with nerves. It explains why his chest goes all tight and squirmy with irritation when Sasha or Tim break the silence when they come in with coffee and a chipper, “Morning, Martin!” It partially explains why Martin hasn’t gone mad with fear or anxiety, part of the reason he’s taken so… well to living in the Archives, part of the reason his notebooks are scattered with bits of prose about darkly roiling clouds and tempestuous winds and slivers of watery sunlight spilling forth.

All because Jon (mean, sceptical, difficult Jon) believed him and offered him a place to stay after he nearly died a wormy death.

It’s not even romantic. It’s just _human decency._

Martin sighs and pulls a pad of paper from one of his desk drawers, a pen from a cheery pink plastic cup full of dry kidney beans and various writing implements. Now that he’s been beat round the head with this realization, these pesky thoughts are unlikely to leave him alone until he _does_ something with them. He glances at Jon through his lashes to take brief inventory of the line of his brows and curve of his cheek, puts pen to paper, and starts to free-associate.

_Black hair, bits of grey at the sides. Raven, magpie, splotch of star-studded sky, pool of ink and mercury. Rivulets of molten silver atop onyx and obsidian. Shards. Sharp. Black and blue, iridescent wings, bruises. Knuckles, hearts, eyes. Eyes. Peacocks? Stop with the birds. Broken glass, porcupine quills, cactus spines, water in a desert. Drought? Rainfall on sun-cracked earth, parched for the slightest splash of tear-drop attention. Thorns, chokecherries—lethal when cut by frost, choking on affection that’s too early, caught in your breath of icy winter. I think I’m starting to see you. Do you see me?_

As though his own words are a command, Martin chews on the cap of his pen and risks a peek up at Jon again.

He’s breathing in the steam from his tea, a look that would be contentment on any other face playing around the edges of his expression. Another sip and his eyes slide shut, glasses still resting lightly against his chest. Martin has no idea what Jon’s prescription is, but if it’s anything like his own, then there’s no way he’d be able to see Martin looking at him from his desk.

The pen cap _cracks_ between Martin’s teeth and pinches his lip. He winces, quits chewing on it, tongues the little wound and looks down at his messy notes. There’s a light _clunk-tap_ as Jon sets down his mug. After a moment of consideration, Martin slowly crosses out any references to _seeing_ and _eyes,_ including the peacock for good measure. Then he goes back and circles _magpie,_ and _silver,_ and _glass_ and _cherries_ and _early._ He’ll fiddle around with it later. Maybe something will come of it. Maybe not.

For now, Martin circles _early_ round and round again with his pen. Across the room, Jon drinks, deeply, from his mug of detestable herbal tea. The digital clock on Tim’s desk ticks over to _06:47._ In an hour and a half, Jon will leave to go pester Rosie for the master key and the Institute will jerk and sputter its way back to life. Sasha will be early, Tim late.

But here, now, there is nothing but the scratch of pen and inhalation of steam. Quiet, companionable silence, for once not fraught with tension, while outside the Institute’s walls of watchful shadow and mystery, the world begins to wake.

**Author's Note:**

> u can find me on twitter (which i still Don't Understand how to use) [@chitalpas](https://twitter.com/chitalpas) or on tumblr (where i get annoyingly enthusiastic in the tags) [@humbleboar](https://humbleboar.tumblr.com/)
> 
> thank u for reading~


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